The Sacred and the Profane
Morning dispatch
When I went to vote for Barack Obama in November of 2008, I was wearing a pin on my jacket with the date 1/20/09 stamped on it. It stood implicitly for the end of Republican rule after the eight long years of the horrific George W. Bush administration. There was nothing explicitly political about the pin. 1/20/09 was simply the date of the inauguration and, regardless of who won, a new president would be sworn in.
While I stood in line with my daughter, a poll worker—one of the many Americans who volunteer their time every election to help people cast their votes and who are now under assault by Donald Trump and his various thugs—came up to me and asked me to remove the pin. I was surprised but did as he asked. My daughter asked why I couldn’t wear the pin and I explained what electioneering meant. In that moment I was reminded that there are sacred places and sacred acts—places and moments that remind us simultaneously of our rights and responsibilities, that serve as symbols of what we’ve fought for and for what we still strive.
Donald and so-called Trumpism seek to destroy all of that. Which should be enough, shouldn’t it? But it never is. Donald, as he often does, compounded his original transgression by failing to take responsibility for it, lying about it, and then blaming the incident on the Gold Star families who invited him there in the first place.
The Democrats need hold hearings and demand that the Trump campaign hand over its videos that allegedly show what happened during their altercation with cemetery staff; the Army, which manages Arlington National Cemetery, needs to investigate and bring charges if necessary; and we need to make it clear that desecrating the hallowed ground of Arlington, which is built on land confiscated from Robert E. Lee, one of the greatest traitors in American history, is the last straw in a line of so many of them.
As Charlie Pierce recently wrote: “Arlington belongs to all of us, but it is not ours to do with what we will. We give ourselves permission to visit, but it is the moral witness of those interred there who make the rules by which we all must abide.”
Day twelve of COVID and I’m sorry to say it’s still knocking me off my feet. The worst seems to be over but I’m completely exhausted, even after almost eleven hours of sleep. I’m giving into it since that seems like the only reasonable course of action. So, apologies for the lack of posting. I try not to think about how bad the timing of all of this is.
My new book, Who Could Ever Love Your, comes out a week from today. My greatest hope at the moment is that I’ll be awake to acknowledge it. Luckily, my first event, for the Commonwealth Club tonight at 3:00 p.m. PT / 6:00 p.m. ET, is virtual. (You can get tickets here—it would be wonderful to have you there.)
And the book is available for pre-order:
The worst aspect of the Arlington incident is that the woman who was shoved is afraid to press charges for fear of retaliation!
It is appalling how that draft dodging criminal turned a sacred place into a campaign ad. And, it is equally appalling that the family of the hero over whose grave they were grinning, invited the orange baboon to do so.